Silence
by quiet empathy
Summary: She had hoped that when you returned, all that would be left of her would be an abrupt apology scrawled on tearstained parchment." Neo learns that nothing lasts forever.


**A/N:** Hoorah for fragmented sentences! All my high school English teachers would squirm in discomfort. This fic takes place between M1 and Reloaded. It's up to you whether this is AU or not, and _why_ this is all happening. I accept that many of you may not like what I've done in this fic, but this is how I planned it to be written from the start. It is a standalone, but your questions will be answered if I ever finish that prequel I started. A huge thank you to my beautiful beta, Rhea aka Trinity-Infinity. You rock :)

**Disclaimer:** This is just a mere fan fiction. The characters aren't mine, the Matrix isn't mine (though I really wish it were). I'm a uni student, I have no money - don't sue me.

**Silence**

Red paint crumbles beneath your skin as you press against the door. It moves silently on its hinges. You see her from behind as she folds clothing with deft fingers, placing her few belongings into an old crate with battered planes, swiftly, as if lingering fingers could summon memories to the surface of each item she touches.

Everything she possesses is irrevocably linked to you.

You push the door wider still, placing each foot over the threshold. The fluorescent lights lining the walkway break through the dimness of room, casting your shadow upon the dusty floor. Light pours over her. Pours over her hands and the shirt that hangs limply from them. She glances over her shoulder, startled. She thought she had more time. Had hoped that when you returned, all that would be left of her would be an abrupt apology scrawled on tearstained parchment.

But you won't even have that when she is gone.

Your breathing grows heavier; hers is forcefully slow and even. Eyes squeezed shut and lips compressed, she searches for the words she had prepared for you, but in that moment they are forgotten. You search her. _Why?_

Her fingers close around the dull grey shirt, nails dig into worn cotton. Her voice is soft and catches in her throat. "I can't... can't do this anymore."

Her eyes open, her gaze landing steadily upon you. Resolutely. _No, _you shake your head fervently. _No. Need you like I need to breathe. Need you else I don't know who I am._ Your mouth finally opens. "Don't," you plead hoarsely.

Your eyes follow her pallid form as she turns to resume her packing. Ignoring you, she places the last few items into the tin box atop the thin mattress you shared in the hollow of the wall. In that moment, you realize you will never learn to spread across the middle of the bed as you did when you were Thomas A. Anderson. The cold sheets beside you will be relentless, unforgiving. Sleep will fail to come, the absence of her hand upon your chest or your cheek or your own fingers reminding you of what you have lost. And perhaps one day you will manage to close your eyes, only to wake in anguish at the feel of ghostly fingertips dancing sweaty trails across your skin. Teasing, because she was never really there.

She does not struggle under the weight of the metal box she bears - her possessions are few. You remember painfully how her lips curled enigmatically, how her blue irises gleamed that time she promised you were all she would ever need. Not new boots or clothes or a warm blanket - just you. But her expression is clouded now, her face devoid of the life you once knew so well.

She stops in the middle of the room, square in front of you. So close that you could reach out to sweep back the raven strands that fall past her eyes and bristle at her cheeks, if you were brave enough. Through her hair, her eyes are staunch and unwavering upon yours. "Neo," she whispers, relishing the sound of your name as it spills over her lips.

She doesn't bother to shake the locks from her eyes, viewing you just like that - your image distorted and streaked with black. Had her hands been empty she might have placed a hand over your cheek one last time. Yet, if you were to do the same she would shrink from your touch as if you bore poison.

Her hands are still and do not tremble, though you can tell by whitened knuckles that she is terrified. As are you. You have forgotten how to live without her; just by looking at her you can see she has forgotten too.Uncertainty is etched into the creases of her tired skin. She is not even sure if she knows the route back to her own apartment amongst the crowds and rock and twisted metal that is Zion. Selfishly, you wonder if she would stay if there were no where else for her to go.

She drinks you in, branding into her memory the image of a man she loved. The man she still loves. "I have to," she breathes as your eyes beg for a reason. Maybe, she mumbles, maybe if the _Nebuchadnezzar_ ever finds a new operator she might see you again. Maybe. Her place is alongside Morpheus, as is yours. You want to grab her by the shoulders and insist fiercely that your place has always been with her. But if you told her that now, would it make a difference?

Swiftly, silently, she turns on her heels. If she looks at you any longer her resolve might crumble and her courage all but leave her. You fix your eyes numbly to the dusty floor as she leaves your line of vision. You don't want to watch her go. But you still hear her. You hear her as she shuffles to the still-open door; hear silence as she turns to see you once more before closing the door behind her with a sharp click. You are left behind in the dim lighting, stark silence, still air. Left behind with nothing more but the scent of her beneath your nose and memories that will gradually wane.


End file.
